Eight Familiar faces
by LovelyParadise256
Summary: "Hey, it's Tyler. Tyler Down. Don't adjust whatever device you're hearing this on, it's me. Live and in-stereo -…. Haha, sound familiar yet? It should. After all, this is my own special rendition of those fucking tapes that ruined my life. Well, whatever was left of it, that is. Not like it was much even before Hannah offed herself." - In which Tyler kills and everything changes
1. Introduction

In the movies, when the main character – the hero- got shot, regardless of where it was on their body, they would always, beyond reason, manage to pull themselves right back up and proceed to fight off the enemy. Crawling to shaky legs, they would conjure up some witty, iconic retort, and inevitably emerge the victor.

Growing up, Clay had always perceived that ability to be thanks to the adrenaline coursing through their veins due to the threat. Adrenaline, as he was lead to believe, could grant man or woman vast strength and numbed any pain so that they could flee or fight themselves away from the situation. It was like a drug of sorts, he would say, eyes glued in unrestrained fascination as the man with two gunshot wounds to the chest stood once more to eventually win the match, and he was right, at least partially.

Now, however, he called absolute bullshit. There was no goddamn way someone could jump right back up from the pain that coincided with a bullet wound, that is, if he could use the nearly numbing pain raising through his side as a valid reference point.

He definitely had a bone to pick with Hollywood producers for their unrealistic expectations, although he figured that now really wasn't the time to mentally scold directors. Instead the blood pooling by his side was more than likely a more valid source of concern, especially considering the fact that it was all his.

I mean, Clay didn't know much about blood and the amount contained in the human body, but man that looked like a little too much for comfort, a thought that was only validated by the frantic, dark features staring down at him with a look lingering between sheer anger and concern.

It was a funny look, he thinks, and he kind of wishes his eyes weren't so blurry so that he could acknowledge it better, which is probably weird, considering the fact that there was a pretty good chance that he was dying and all.

The mental state it left him in, on the other hand, wasn't all that bad. He means, it hurt like a bitch, as one would assume getting shot would feel, however it wasn't necessarily fear that blossomed in his chest as much as it was shock and a bizarre sense of peace.

Sure there was no way in hell he was going to be able to stand, or even sit up for that matter, and his sides throbbed to a degree that was beyond uncomfortable, and – oh, Tony's speaking to him, he almost missed that.

"Shit, Clay! Clay, stay with me, bud! Clay – Dammit, you fucking idiot…"

"Hey…" For a moment the taller boy isn't certain who is more surprised by the sudden appearance of his voice in all its croaky, cracked glory, "In-Insult to Injury. N-Not cool man…"

A soft, wheeze of a chuckle echoed from Clay after his teasing remark, the sheer force of will it took to voice his attempt at making coherent sentences frightening him to a terrifying degree. So he made a joke, a silly, useless joke that didn't appear to strike Tony as even remotely funny, which really was too bad. He thought it was pretty good coming from a man that might be dying.

So much for his witty hero line – man, that shit was harder to think up than some people think.

"Dammit Clay… Why the hell did you do that?!"

Why? Well, looking back on it, the taller boy figured that that was a difficult question to answer on a good day. When he didn't feel like all the wind had been knocked from his chest and he was just kind of floating there on the library floor, getting lectured by an angry Hispanic man.

It had all _technically_ started that morning, although, judging by the gun now laying listlessly just a few yards beyond his prone form, Clay figured that, realistically, this all begun a long time ago. Maybe even before the tapes, before Hannah, before everything, though really, who could say for sure?

Maybe Tyler, but he's too far gone now to be of any assistance to the police who's near bye sirens spilt his head in two. Damn, those bastards were loud when they wanted to be, weren't they? Loud and late to offer them any real assistance from the young, misunderstood boy with a gun and eyes blazing with an intent to avenge.

But, specifics aside, he was temporarily reminded of Tony's inquiry as a soft, warm drop of water plopping on his face startled him from his muddled thoughts, invoking blue eyes to drift from the ceiling to instead regard the shorter male.

Was that a tear? Was Tony crying for him?

Well that was certainly a shame; it wasn't necessary. He was fine! Or, at least, as fine as a teen with a bullet hole in his side could be.

Alright, so maybe he really wasn't _fine_ , but it who really was anymore?

And who would have known what Tyler was planning? That he had been so deeply disturbed by this school that he would go so far as to initiate a shooting?

Talk about missing signs of suicide in others such as Alex; they had also, apparently, managed to completely look past the murderous intent that, now that Clay reflected on it, had been evident in Tyler's behavior for at least a few weeks.

Huh, so much for everyone treating each other better. Damn, high school really sucked. At this point he should write a book, but then again he can't really feel his fingers anymore either. Kinda needed those to write a novel.

How it was that they had gotten into this situation, Clay suddenly recalls, temporarily forgetting the initial line of thought that had been voiced from the now frantic Tony.

Well, that was a pretty long story, one that he really only knew a bit about himself, as it certainly was not him that pulled that trigger, but he figured he would rehash what he himself was aware of anyway.

Now, if only he could keep his muddled thoughts together long enough to explain.

The details themselves were hazy, as were the words now filling the room as first responders seemed to finally arrive.

It's about time. I mean, call him impatient, but he didn't really want to die quite yet, so some hustling would be appreciated.

Though, as his eyelids begin to droop and Tony's voice raises an octave in some foreign demand, Clay wonders if they really aren't too late already.

But then again, maybe he deserved this. He was already too late to right the wrong he had dealt to Tyler, so maybe this was karma's way of repaying him for all those moments of self-imposed justice.

Either way, his mind still raced in an attempt to comprehend and silently respond to the shorter boy's question. Why did he do that? What drove Tyler to act as he did?

Well, those were both questions for another time, he decided, as he finally allowed his eyes to flutter shut as darkness, the imagined curtains closing on the play of his life – unless he really did somehow manage to pull through his one- shielded his vision and froze his body.

But, with his last fleeting thoughts, Clay figured he could determine at least eight reasons why Tyler did what he did.


	2. Chapter 2: Eight familiar faces

Call Clay crazy, but he had always imagined death to be peaceful, or, at the very least quiet.

He expected to be bathed in some form of glistening warmth that signified heaven, or, perhaps blistering heat that seared his skin with the sigma of hell.

After all the shit he'd done with the tapes, he wouldn't really be surprised if he was sent to the latter instead.

Or maybe it was just pure nothingness – a state of numbed indifference where you were unable to feel anything. He was never really a religious person, so he couldn't say for sure which of the three would be more likely.

Where he was now, however, was nothing like any of his perceived afterlives, unfortunately. Rather than silence, heat, or peace, he felt numb, cold, and heard the very distinct chatter of several voices, although the precise words they were uttering were lost on Clay, whom found himself placing more focus on the loud beeping resonating beside him.

Damn, he was really hoping for his assumptions to be right at least once in a while. Certainly he didn't really want to die, but given the circumstances, he was beginning to become content with the idea.

After all, would finally finding himself at ease truly be so bad? He was barely even mentally alive anymore on earth anyway, so what was the real difference?

Maybe now he could be reunited with Hannah and love her the way he wished so desperately he could have while they were both alive and well – he could apologize and pamper her for the rest of their afterlives. She deserved that much, at least.

 _"What, and reunite with Hannah? What does that make you, Clay? God?"_

Clay could feel himself unconsciously bristle at the rough tone that suddenly pierced his lethargic thoughts, a memory in the form of Tony's far too familiar voice.

Tony… That's right… He would be leaving Tony behind… Tony, Skye, and his parents, but mainly Tony….

He couldn't do that to him – not after everything that happened.

Around him, he could detect the slightest increase in hushed whispers, tones appearing a tad bit more urgent as a soft weight was placed on the side of his cheek – that was where his cheek was supposed to be located, right?

"-I think he's waking up… I'll get… doctor will see…"

Tidbits of syllables escaping the phantom voices around him were lost in the foggy haze that was his mind, but that incessant beeping remained loud and clear, annoying him to no end.

Why couldn't it stop? Why couldn't it all just stop?

Then there was darkness again, any traces of the voices disappearing for what felt like the hundredth time in minutes.  
"Clay?"

This particular word, his name, rang loud and clear throughout the boy's conscious, causing his face to scrunch up slightly in recognition. Finally, he could feel his body again, well not completely, but enough to be able to twitch his fingers.

As though that sole word parting from familiar lips could rejuvenate him, Clay felt his eyes finally peel open, the action requiring more strength than ever before.

They felt heavy, in fact, his whole body felt like it weighed a million pounds, which was ironic, considering the fact that he scarcely weighed enough to be deemed not underweight by his doctor.

His vision too was strange, nearly as hazy as his mind, as he attempted to peer up at what he expected to be a white ceiling, only to instead find Tony's concerned expression blocking his view.

"Clay? Are you alright?"

So it _was_ Tony that he heard, huh? For a moment he almost believed it was his mind playing tricks on him. It wouldn't be the first time, after all.

But, if that was, in fact Tony, that must mean he was alive after all, he muses, blue eyes narrowing in a futile attempt to focus on the boy above him.

"Tony…?" He can just barely manage to mumble, voice low and nearly inaudible from disuse, "Where…?"

"Hospital." The shorter boy responded instantly, his gaze raking Clay's form in a manner that he knew to be accessing his damage, but still managed to make the taller boy feel a tad uncomfortable – he never did enjoy being the center of attention, "You've been out for a week. It was a little hit or miss for a while there, but the doctor said that you should make a full recovery."

A small smile curved Tony's lips at the end of his explanation, displaying the obvious relief he felt at being able to assure Clay that he was fine rather than the opposite,

"Your parents actually just left a little while ago. They've been by your side ever since you came here. They'll be back soon."

At that Clay offered a small nod, only to flinch slightly at the pain that even that slight movement invoked in his body. Damn, yeah, getting shot really wasn't nearly as cool as it looked in the movies.

"Hey, don't move. The last thing you want is that wound opening up again." Jutting his chin slightly out to acknowledge the bandages aligning his chest, Tony finally glanced away from Clay, his attention seeming to focus on the window as he allowed silence to fall between them.

As Tony took to pondering something he had yet to put into words, the taller boy took the moment to glance around the room they were in, vaguely surprised to find it devoid of any other people.

What had been the cause of all those voices he heard before? Had he been in and out of consciousness for longer than he thought?

That actually wouldn't be surprising, Clay figured, since Tony himself had said that he'd been out for a week. Yet he still never felt so tired as he did now.

Biting his bottom lip gently at the thought, blue eyes returned to focusing on the blue shelves of the hospital room, visibly surprised to find what appeared to be flowers, pictures, notes and presents adorning nearly every inch of free space.

Every once and a while he could make out the shape of his name carved into the front of cards or scribbled on get well soon balloons. In fact, the whole room looked inappropriately bright and cheerful considering the situation that put him there, in that white bed and equally white hospital gown.

Leave it to their school to glorify even the most horrendous crimes with obnoxiously cheerful quotes and gifts, as though they could somehow hide the gloomy results of their actions.

For a minute he can't help but compare the scene to the memorial table that the school had laid out for Hannah after her death, the only difference being the fact that he was still alive. Probably. Probably still alive.

"You're alive." Tony suddenly clarifies, inspiring Clay to revert his attention from the décor to instant stare at the other boy again, silently wondering how it was that Tony seemed to always know exactly what he was thinking. It would have almost been unnerving had he not already been so used to it, "Somehow, you're still alive."

Clay goes to nod again, only to recall the discomfort that blossomed as a result of the last time he so much as moved, and instead settled with gazing wordlessly at the boy that still refused to look at him again.

"Tony…"

"Don't talk. Seriously, don't. Just relax and rest."

"But I-…"

"Clay."

The suddenly serious snap of his name resounding from his usually calm friend inspired Clay to fall silent, eyes flickering down to the white covers laying haphazardly around his waist in rejection.

"Look, I'm not mad, okay? The doctor just said that you should avoid talking and moving for a few days once you fully wake up. You've almost come to a few times yesterday and today, but just because you're awake now doesn't mean you've healed."

Clay blinks slowly at the explanation in an attempt to convey understanding, although he knows Tony doesn't notice, his brown eyes still glaring holes out the window.

"So sleep."

The taller boy wants to, the dull lull of unconsciousness already pulling at the corners of his eyes, but he can't sleep again, not until he knew more about what had happened during the time of his recovery.

The others, the six others that Tyler had mentioned targeting aside from himself – how were they? Were there any innocent bystanders that got caught up in Tyler's fury?

He needed to know these things and more, but he could not convey that nor could he manage to remain alert. Instead he was helpless against the drooping of his eyes and slumping of his body as sleep claimed his mind once more.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was only once Clay's breaths fell back into a regulated pattern that Tony willed himself to glance back at the taller boy.

Just as with most times when he acknowledged Clay, beaten and broken, he felt a nearly suffocating rage stir in his stomach and only managed to quell it by taking deep breaths and reminding himself that taking revenge is the opposite of what Clay would want.

So he would remain calm and seated in the seat that he had scarcely vacanted since the day one week ago that they were first allowed to visit Clay's prone form, despite the fact that his attackers, the asshole that nearly murdered Clay, was unconscious in a room just down the hall.

But he couldn't allow himself to dwell on that fact, opting instead to study the boy before him for what was probably the hundredth time that day.

By nature, Clay was already a pretty pale dude, yet somehow he only appeared to be paler against the crisp white sheets, his pink lips and brown hair stark contrasts to his otherwise lifeless appearance.

His thin face was hollow, and, had Tony not known any better, he would have believed himself to be sitting beside the bed of a corpse.

Dammit, why did Clay do that?! After he had gone out of his way to distract Tyler so that he would point the trigger at Tony instead… So that that would be him lying on the bed, not Clay. Because Clay didn't deserve this shit, any of it. Jeff's death, Hannah's suicide, the tapes, and now fucking this.

He didn't deserve any of this pain and misery, yet that seemed to be all his friend was getting as of the late.

The shooting at the school though… That was beyond fucked up. It was almost unbelievable, even to the smaller male, whom had witnessed the whole thing. Who witnessed Tyler's crumpling façade and heard the argument, and was helpless to stop Clay as he took the bullet leveled at Tony.

Before he can help it the scene of Clay slumped down and bleeding on the library floor crosses his mind and his eyes squeeze shut, however the images persist regardless.

Tyler's hollow laughter as he soon turns the gun on himself and shoots, although that's not what Tony's concerned about, not when Clay's on the ground and not responding.

It's only when a soft knock resounds on the hospital room door that the shorter boy jolts his head up in thinly veiled surprise.

At first he expects to find a doctor, nurse, or even Mr. and Mrs. Jensen standing at the door, no doubt hesitant in entering due to the pained expression he was certain was marring his expression. He was not, however, inclined to see Ryan slouching against the door frame, his lips lacking the usual, confident smirk that he wore in public.

No, instead he looks tired, vulnerable, almost, as he gazes silently at Tony.

"Ryan?"

"In the flesh." Almost in a moment the taller boy's visage changes as he readjusts the nonchalant mask that the tattooed boy knew he favored, "You look horrible."

"What do you want?"

"What, no hello?"

"Ryan…."

Seeming to understand that Tony was in no mood for whatever nonsensical charade Ryan was conjuring up, the poet allowed his mien to drop into a frown, his eyes darting throughout the room to ensure they were alone before speaking once more,

"I need to talk to you."

"Then talk."

"In private."

Tony's eyebrow rose in silent question as he cast a pointed glance around the room,

"We're already alone."

"I know but -…" Pausing in mid-sentence, Ryan regarded the sleeping Clay with a sad, almost pitying look, before nodding at the other's statement and moving to stand directly before Tony. "I think I found something that would be of interest to you."

Opting to ignore the inquisitive look Tony sent to him at the confession, Ryan dug around in his jeans pockets before producing a small, blue flash drive with nothing more than the words "watch" imprinted on a strip of attached tape.

"What is this?" Tony inquired, his fingers rising hesitantly to accept the device, "And why do you have it?"

"It's Tyler's, watch it."

"Answer my questions first."

"Watch it. I can't explain it."

"But I don't have my computer-…."

"I have mine."

Within a minute, Ryan was digging into the backpack draped leisurely on one shoulder before fishing out his laptop and turning it on. There was a moment of pause, in which Tony assumed Ryan was inserting a password, before the flash drive was snatched from the smaller boy and inserted into the USB port. It was only once the aforementioned file was pulled up and full screened that Ryan finally allowed it down to Tony, an unreadable look twinkling in light eyes.

"Keep the volume down."

With that last command, the taller boy stepped back towards the door but did not leave as Tony momentarily expected. Instead he stopped against the wall and took to leaning against it, his gaze anywhere but meeting Tony's.

That was strange for Ryan, Tony thinks, brown eyes narrowing in suspicion before moving to the computer now placed in his lap.

Just what was so important that Ryan had come here to him of all people? Especially knowing what Clay had just gone through.

Figuring the computer to be the only way to find an answer to those questions, Tony pressed the play button and watched apprehensively as the screen remained black, the only indication that the video was even starting the slight crackle of a camera settling on whatever surface it was set on.

The darkness persisted for several seconds before a figure appeared, blurry at first, but slowly focusing as the camera attempted to abide by its owner's requests, whatever those were.

The person on the film was sitting on a black comforter with a hoodie and pair of jeans that matched. His face, undecipherable due to the shadow of the hood, moved in direction of the camera before a pale hand rose to softly remove the shield, illustrating none other than Tyler's irritating mug.

Just what the hell was going on here?

The silent question racing through Tony's mind did not last long before the depiction of Tyler began to speak, the slowly growing grin on his face reminding the shorter boy of just how much he wanted to punch the asshole.

 _"Hey, it's Tyler. Tyler Down. Don't adjust whatever device you're hearing this on, it's me. Live and in-stereo -…. Haha, sound familiar yet? It should. After all, this is my own special rendition of those fucking tapes that ruined my life. Well, whatever was left of it, that is. Not like it was much even before Hannah offed herself. "_

Appalled and unable to listen any longer, Tony smashed the pause button on the small computer before leveling his gaze threateningly at the limber shape of Ryan, whom still lingered nonchalantly by the door, his attention set on the sleeping form of Clay in a manner Tony would have believed to be somber had he not known Ryan as well as he did.

"What the hell is this shit, Ryan?" He demanded, rough hands gripping the device with enough strength to snap it if he was not careful, "Did you know Tyler was planning this shit?"

"Yeah, because this whole murder fiasco is definitely my idea of a good time. Please Tony, if I had any hand in this it would have, at the very least, been a bit more poetic, don't you think?"

At Tony's harsh glare the taller male sighed, finally prying his gaze from Clay to look at Tony, "Do you really think I would have come straight here if I was at all a part of this? I don't want any part of this crap, but… But I couldn't just throw that away…"

"Did you watch it?"  
Pausing in evident unease, the poet appeared to maul over his response before uttering a tentative confirmation.

"A part of it. I found the pictures he hung up in the yearbook room too – they were all the students that Tyler shot and, well, I figured you'd want to see them after what happened to…" He cleared his throat and tilted his head towards the bedridden boy in silent indication of the name he could not voice, "I knew he had some issues, but to do something like this…"

The tattooed boy can't help but nod, understanding the words that Ryan could not speak. After all, he too felt similar – neither had foreseen the boy doing something like that… Certainly he had a bit of a mean streak, as was shown when he published that picture of Hannah and Courtney kissing, but they never thought… Never even considered the fact that his hurt had festered to such a fatal degree…

Because damn it, the shooting was bad enough but this – this blatant satire of Hannah's tapes, the tapes where a hurt girl voiced the pain that she could not utter while alive- was too much.

Yet Tony found himself pressing the play button once more, brown eyes staring numbly at the screen as Tyler continued.

 _"But anyway, this is the part where I'm supposed to say something along the lines of "no return engagements, no encore, and this time, absolutely no requests. Grab a snack, settle in, because I'm about to tell you the story of my life, or more specifically, the story of how I ended all their miserable lives." Something like that, right? I mean, Hannah pulled this shit and got away with it, so why can't I? You all deserve this anyway. Though, if everything goes as planned, everyone on this video will be dead by the time anyone actually finds this, including myself. If not, and you're still somehow alive, I hope knowing that what I did, and the deaths that came from it, was because of you; these eight reasons why… Actually, you know what, that sounds a little cringy, don't you think? Unoriginal… Ah, how about, you eight familiar faces?_

 _Yeah, that's better. You eight familiar faces – the ones that made my life a living hell."_


End file.
